


Raining Cats and Dogs

by Tierfal



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist the Movie: Conqueror of Shamballa, Catboys & Catgirls, Crack, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy is woken in the middle of the night by the strangest thing he never dreamed of.</p><p>['03/Shamballa 'verse, minor spoilers.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raining Cats and Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> Today the crack!brain brings us ridiculous speedfic, written in a document indicatively titled "stupid goddamn neko al why", inspired by several posts made at the bane of my existence place: [amazing fanart](http://tierfal.tumblr.com/post/41076174125/neon-splashes-alkahestic-heiligenscheinn) (nsfw), [the challenge I stupidly accepted](http://alkahestic.tumblr.com/post/41076517200/now-i-want-a-fanfic-of-roy-taking-in-a-naked-neko), and [further amazing fanart that makes an excellent epilogue for this](http://heiligenscheinn.tumblr.com/post/41079607242/roy-makes-the-mistake-of-bringing-al-to-the-office).
> 
> I HATE EVERYTHING~
> 
> Enjoy. ♥

Roy is getting too goddamned old for erratic pounding at the door after midnight. The things he mutters in the course of shouldering on his bathrobe and staggering down the stairs would earn him a patented Hawkeye glare for their vulgarity, but it’s not like he can let it be.

He glares through the peephole, blinks, leans back to scrub at his good eye, and looks again. There’s—nothing.

It could be the wind. It could be bored kids who don’t know who they’re screwing with. It could be anything; it could be nothing at all.

He dips his right hand into the robe’s pocket and wriggles it into the waiting glove. He draws it out, poises his fingertips, and throws the door open with his free hand.

It’s—

Alphonse Elric.

Sitting on the front step.

 _Naked_.

With cat’s ears and a gently-swaying tail.

If words exist for this, Roy cannot begin to fathom what they are.

The front walk is wet from the recent rain, and Alphonse is soaked to the roots of his hair and his… fur. He sits crouched on the damp brick, slender hands splayed out in front of him, ears swiveling, tail flicking, eyes _immense_.

“What the fuck is going on?” Roy asks, and if his voice trembles a little, it’s only the cold.

Alphonse blinks at him unrevealingly.

Roy’s dreaming. That’s the only explanation; he is, in fact, still asleep. Was he drinking before bed? Good _Lord_ ; he’ll swear that off forever. What in the hell is he supposed to _do_?

Alphonse tilts his head, and his ears flatten against his skull for a moment before popping upright again. He makes an inquisitive noise in the back of his throat, and then he—shivers.

“Oh, God help me,” Roy whispers to the unsympathetic air. He steps back, drawing the door open wider, and beckons. “Come on. Come on in, it’s cold.”

Alphonse’s eyes narrow. His tail snaps back and forth, once, twice—

“I am not going to be your doorman,” Roy says. Alphonse pouts at him. He grits his teeth, kneels, curls his finger, and clicks his tongue. “ _Alphonse_. Come inside. Don’t you want food?”

Alphonse scampers past him like a shot.

This is the stupidest dream Roy has ever had.

He slams the door, bolts it, and follows the darting tail into the kitchen.

Alphonse is still buck naked and has commenced sniffing interestedly at the doors of the lower cabinets.

“This is why I like dogs,” Roy says. “Why couldn’t you have been a dog?”

Alphonse turns slowly to give him a look of wide-eyed, gut-wrenching, absolute _betrayal_.

“Fine,” Roy says. “I don’t even know what cats eat. You could have called ahead. It’s polite, you know.”

Alphonse bats one of the cabinet doors open and sticks his head in. The tail whips, spraying droplets of rain. Roy really needs to stop looking at the pale, bare, perfectly sculpted ass in the middle of his kitchen.

It’s fine. He’s dreaming. He’ll wake up with morning wood and a pervasive sense of shame, and by lunchtime, all of this will be forgotten.

He turns up some steak leftovers in the icebox—do cats have a preference between medium and well-done?—and, after a moment of hesitation watching Alphonse rooting through the cupboard and gnawing on his own bedraggled ponytail, chops the meat into small, thin slices. He sweeps them all into the most durable-looking bowl he can find and sets it on the floor.

“Fine dining,” he says. “I hope you’re happy.”

If the way Alphonse twitches his tail-adorned rump whilst devouring the entirety is any indication, ‘happy’ is a good word for it. In related news, Roy thinks he’s going to have an aneurysm.

While Alphonse is licking the bowl, Roy slips up to the linen closet and returns with a towel he isn’t fond of. He hunkers down on the floor again to be less threatening and stretches out the towel.

“Come here, Alphonse,” he says. “Come on.”

Alphonse stares at him uncomprehendingly.

“We’re going to dry you off,” Roy says. “Don’t you want to be warm?”

Alphonse yawns extravagantly, swipes at his mouth repeatedly with the back of his hand, and curls up on the floor. The tip of his tail taps arrhythmically on the linoleum.

“I have done a lot of things,” Roy says faintly, “but I have never done anything to deserve _this_.”

Alphonse settles his chin in the crook of his elbow and starts… purring.

Roy swallows the scream of frustration, creeps over to the tight little knot of bare skin and cinnamon-colored fur, wraps Alphonse in the towel, and scoops him up in both arms. Alphonse growls softly, but then he nuzzles at Roy’s chest and settles. He’s remarkably heavy for part of a dream.

It’s a good thing Roy’s just going to shake his head and try not to remember this in the morning, because the stairs are _murder_ on his back with a limp cat-boy in his arms.

Roy sets Alphonse on the empty side of the bed and attempts to scrub the worst of the rainwater out of his hair. Without opening his eyes, Alphonse butts his head repeatedly against Roy’s hand, which does not make the task any easier. Eventually Roy gives in and strokes the boy’s hair back behind the strange, delicate, furry ears, and Alphonse purrs again, richly. The sound resonates in his bony chest and travels straight up Roy’s arm and thence to his hea…

 _No_. This is a stupid dream about a stupid matter, and he’s not going to make it any more stupid by being stupid about it.

He shucks off the bathrobe, tosses it over the footboard, and climbs into his side of the bed, drawing the covers up over himself and then adjusting them to warm the lump of purring Elric snuggled with the other pillow. This is _too_ absurd.

 _Going to sleep now,_ he thinks loudly at his own brain. _Expect this all to be finished with when I wake up again—are we crystal-clear?_

His brain, of course, does not deign to reply.

He rolls over, reaches up to turn out the light, closes his eyes, and intently visualizes a normal morning.

 

 

He wakes to a sandpapery tongue scraping over his collarbone.

The noise that emerges from his dry mouth is one part yelp, one part shout, one part squeak, and wholly _humiliating_.

Alphonse’s still-extremely-present cat ears lower and angle back, and his curled hand prods at Roy’s chest gently as he fixes his victim with a very quizzical gaze.

The wet patch of saliva on Roy’s skin is tingling.

“No,” he says. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Alphonse frowns and shifts his lithe body so quickly that the bedclothes billow; he settles his cheek against Roy’s chest and watches Roy’s face critically.

“What in the hell is going on?” Roy asks. His hand reaches out—entirely without his permission—and starts scratching behind Alphonse’s soft ear. “This is a _disaster_.” He should know better, but he blurts out: “On the upside, I suppose it can’t get any w—”

A window breaks downstairs, and there is a _mournful_ howl. Roy sits bolt upright, earning a startled hiss from Alphonse—and then there’s a tremendous ruckus thumping its way up the stairs, and then the bedroom door slams open, and—

Edward Elric, extremely nude and covered in mud, bounds across the floor, vaults up onto the heretofore-spotless white comforter, and starts licking at Alphonse’s face. Alphonse mews helplessly, and Edward’s golden tail wags.

Roy has no words.


End file.
